


Fandom Furniture

by Rainsmoke1504



Category: Captain America (Movies), Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Flirting, Fluff, Gen, Humor, IKEA Furniture, M/M, heart to heart talks, slight angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-01-21 08:36:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1544522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainsmoke1504/pseuds/Rainsmoke1504
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various fandom characters encounter the puzzle of the modern world: IKEA furniture! (Self-assembly required.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. dean winchester and castiel.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This fic idea actually came from a tumblr post (I'll link when I find it again). Just some fluff to lighten your day!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is trying to assemble a shelf in the bunker. Sam wants to know why. Dean tries to put the shelf together, because 'how hard can assembling an IKEA shelf be?'. Shenanigans ensue. "Cas, we can fix this!" "It's not broken, Dean!"

"Why-" THUD! "-won't-" BAM! "-this-" CRASH! "-stupid-" BAM! "-goddamn-" BANG! "-thing-" SMASH! "-fit! Ah, fu-"

CRAASH!

Sam blinked. "Um, Dean? Are you - that can't be comfortable. You need some help?"

Scowling from a tangle of limbs and wood-planks, Dean tried to get upright. 'Tried' being the operative word.

"Oof!" Dean windmilled his arms as his newly-liberated right foot caught on a loose plank and he plopped back down into the mess of planks and nails.

"Ow, what the hell! Why the hell are those nails so...pointy?"

Sam tried not to chuckle at his brother. Or rather, his sawdust-covered brother. Who was rapidly moving on from 'disgruntled' to 'pissed-at-Sammy-and-ready-to-prank-him-until-he-helps'. Maybe he hadn't been as good at concealing his amusement as he thought.

"Alright, Dean, what were you trying to do? Why do you have a bunch of wooden planks and screws in... Wait, is this Cas' room?" Sam's voice rose in incredulity as he looked around the room. Each of them had a room in the bunker - Dean, him, Cas, Charlie (and Kevin. Before.) He hadn't realised he was in Cas' room, having just come out of the library and feeling a little dazed from doing research. (Wait, was that a day already? No wonder he was hungry.)

"Dean, what are you doing in Cas' room? And making a mess?" Dean was suspiciously silent. "This isn't some prank thing, right?"

"I'm hurt, Sammy, what do you take me for?" Dean pretended to be offended, but both Winchesters could tell that he was putting on a show. _Dean always does that, whenever he wants to avoid a chick-flick moment_ , thought Sam.

Ignoring Dean's dramatic mock-annoyance, Sam picked up a plank. "Okay, any reason why you're trying to build a shelf for Cas, then?"

"What - Who - What makes you think I'm building a shelf for Cas?" Looking around at the untouched bed ("angels do not need to sleep, Dean"), the haphazardly placed odds and ends that Cas picked up from God-knows-where ("these are souvenirs, Dean. They remind me of...people and places I've seen"), Dean knew he wasn't fooling anyone, especially not his brother who knew him almost as well as himself. He was in Cas' room, for God's sake. Putting up a shelf, that he bought, at that Swedish place that was more confusing than a, a Trickster, for Cas. So he could neatly display all his treasured knick-knacks, no matter how weird they were. (Seriously, that lock of blonde hair? The golden-brown feather? And a Supernatural book by Chuck, of all things.)

So yeah, maybe he has a...thing for Cas. But there's no reason Sam should know. Except he's looking at Dean with that knowing expression, the one that says 'I know everything you're not saying and maybe a hell lot more'.

"Dean... C'mon, do you want me to help you or not? If we hurry, we can finish it before Cas gets back, from wherever he went." Sam doesn't press the issue, just offers his help again.

"I just - I need to do this for - I need to do this by myself, okay?" Dean catches himself before he says it. _No chick-flick, and Sammy doesn't need to know_ , Dean told himself sternly. ( _Besides, he didn't need someone else to tell him he wasn't good enough - wasn't what Dad would want._ )

"Um. Okay. Just...if you need anything, I'll be in the kitchen. Starving." Sam put down the plank he was fiddling with and left the room.

\---

An hour later, and Dean wasn't much closer to completing the shelf. So he had the top and sides fixed, but the parts in the middle just WON'T FIT -

"Hello, Dean."

Dean paused, putting down the plank he was trying to shove into the half-finished shelf.

"Uh, Cas, hi?" Shuffling, Dean tried to block Cas' view of the shelf. (Or what was completed, that is.)

"Samuel has informed me of your difficulties. Would you require my assistance?" Cas has his head tilted to the side.

"Uh..." Dean stuttered. Dammit, he wanted this to be a surprise. _Sam, you traitor!_ He silently shouted. "It's really - It's fine, look why don't you go talk to, uh, Sam, or, uh, Charlie or, uh - do you want some food?"

Cas furrowed his brows. "Dean, are you alright? I am an angel, I do not require sustenance."

Mouth turning down at the corners, Cas continued, "Unless...you do not want my help? Have I offended you in some way?"

 _Ah, dammit._ Dean knew he couldn't refuse Cas when he got all...pouty and sad puppy-dog-eyes. (Not that he would ever let Cas - or Sam - ever know that.)

\---

In his room diagonally opposite Cas', Sam lounged on his bed and bit into his sandwich, smiling to himself. He could hear vague murmurings coming from Cas' room, interspersed with the occasional thud of a hammer, and a pleased exclamation. Then, suddenly, a loud CRAAASH!, and Sam almost leapt out of his bed to help, then stopped.

After the litany of curses from Dean, he could hear his plaintive sigh and "We can fix this, Cas". Then Cas' answering, slightly exasperated "It's not broken, Dean!" Then silence. Then an odd sound, like planks of wood knocking softly against each other. And low whispers.

Peeking through the keyhole of Cas' door, Sam saw a completely assembled shelf beside Cas' bed. And Dean, beaming at Cas. And Cas... Wow. If that soft, tender smile on Cas' face isn't love, then Sam isn't a Winchester. Creeping away from the door, he sneaked back to his room and his half-eaten sandwich, grinning all the while.


	2. john watson and sherlock holmes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John comes back to the apartment to discover a partially assembled bed frame in the living room. His old bed is gone. John is confused. Sherlock is petulant. They try to assemble the bed frame. "Sherlock, if you would just follow the instructions -" "The instructions are WRONG, John!"

Climbing up the stairs to their apartment, John paused on the top step. Silence. A little too quiet, and that's worrying where Sherlock Holmes, mental age five, is concerned. Opening the door gingerly, John braced himself for whatever ridiculous act Sherlock has done now. And stopped. Blinked. Rubbed his eyes, and stared. Nope, still there.

"Sherlock, why is there an IKEA bed frame in our living room?"  _And this isn't even in the Top 10 weirdest questions I've had to ask._  John shakes his head, amused.

 

Sherlock glanced up from where he was sprawled on the sofa. "Hmm, that? Oh, just an experiment."

  
"Right, and that would be why..." John's voice trailed off as he looked up the stairs to his bedroom. "Sherlock. Why are there splinters of wood on the stairs leading down from my bedroom?"

Sherlock frowned. "Damn, I thought I got rid of all the bits. Ah, well." He muttered, turning over to face the back of the sofa.

"All the - Sherlock! Did you destroy my bed?" John sputtered, outraged. Now where was he supposed to sleep?

"Ah yes, 'destroyed' may be a tad strong." Sensing John's steadily growing anger, Sherlock tried to defend himself. "It was for an experiment, John!"

"You...!" John growled under his breath. "Why do I even put up with you, my flatmate is a nutter, I swear." Taking a calming breath, John tried to quell his urge to shake his irresponsible flatmate.

"Right, so let's get started then. I presume this IKEA bed frame is your idea of an apology? As apologies go, it's decent, I suppose." John sat down on the chair (his chair), and started rummaging about in the packaging.

"What on Earth are you doing, John?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow, somehow managing to convey disdain and incredulity at the same time. (Despite obviously being the one in the wrong here!)

"Looking for the instructions, of course. The sooner we fix this thing, the sooner I can go to sleep. It's night-time, you know. When normal people go to sleep?"

Sherlock snorted. "And how dull 'normal people' are."

"Are you going to help me or not? You ought to, you know, seeing as it's your fault I don't have a bed in the first place." John frowned, then exclaimed happily, brandishing the sheaf of instructions, "Aha! Got it. Now, I repeat, are you going to help me?"

Grumbling to himself, Sherlock threw himself off the sofa and took the instructions from John. "Genius-level intellect, and what am I doing? Assembling furniture."

John pretended not to hear his complaints. "Now, I think we have to put this here - are these the legs of the bed then? Hmm, is this piece the headboard? Or..." John's voice petered off as he mused silently. This furniture assembling business was harder than he thought.

His train of thought was interrupted by Sherlock, who threw down the sheaf of instructions and flounced off into the kitchen. "Oi, Sherlock, where do you think you're going?"

"This is pointless. I'm going to check on my experiments." Sherlock declared, sticking his head around the kitchen doorway before vanishing into the kitchen once more.

"Bloody git, how am I supposed to fix this bed? And it's already eleven." Grumbling angrily, John turned back to the task of assembling his bed.

A moment, and Sherlock came back into the room. "Oh alright, I suppose with my genius-level intellect this shouldn't take very long." He folded himself into a seating position next to the half-finished bed frame, and picked up the bit John thought was the head board (but couldn't really be sure it was.)

Staring, John had to ask, "Aren't you supposed to look at the instructions first?"

"Don't need them," replied Sherlock without even glancing up.

\---

Two hours later, John was nursing a cup of tea in his chair and watching Sherlock struggle with the bed frame. It was still half-finished. John tried not to chuckle. Who would have thought that Sherlock Holmes, the World's Only Consulting Detective, would be defeated by IKEA furniture.

"Sherlock, if you would just follow the instructions -"

"The instructions are WRONG, John!" Sherlock snarled, scrubbing a hand through his already rumpled hair.

"Okay, we're both tired and cranky, let's just go to sleep, and continue this tomorrow morning. You...go to your bedroom or whatever, and I'll sleep here on the sofa. See, it's comfortable." John went to lie on the sofa, stretching out to prove his point.

Sherlock looked at him guiltily. "But...it's lumpy. And -"

John cut off whatever Sherlock was about to say with an annoyed huff. "Well, what do you want me to do then? I'm tired and I need to sleep, Sherlock."

"I said, youcanhavemybedforthenightifyouwant. "

"Uh, what? That was way too fast for me to understand. Are you trying - wait. Sherlock, are you - are you embarrassed?"

More suspicious silence.

"Why - hang on, did you just offer me your bed?"

Sherlock sniffed disdainfully, as though trying to compensate for his offer. "Well it is only logical, seeing as it is already one and you have to work at the clinic later in the morning."

John tried not to grin. "Well, yeah, sure then. Don't you need your own bed? You know, to sleep?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I have a delicate experiment that will yield results in approximately an hour. After which I will be quite busy analysing it." 

This time John couldn't smother his grin. "Right, so good night, or good morning, I'm going to bed. Thanks, Sherlock." Halfway through opening the bedroom door, he heard Sherlock's soft "You're welcome," and he grinned even wider.

\---

And if the next morning, John woke to find Sherlock curled up next to him, well then no one could blame him for grinning like a fool, could they?


	3. steve rogers and bucky barnes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky hates his metal arm. It keeps gouging tracks in the dining table when he forgets and grips too tightly. Steve doesn't really mind, but Bucky knows he's worried about Bucky's fits of anger. He tries to buy Steve a new table to apologise. Who knew Captain America and the Winter Soldier can't assemble a table?
> 
> (Set in some vague future where Bucky and Steve are together again, negotiating the perils of the 21st century.)

Whistling to himself, Steve unlocked the door to his Brooklyn apartment. Nice of Tony to buy an apartment for him, even if he kept bemoaning the fact that he had rooms in Avengers Tower that were bigger than the apartment. It was nice to have something of his own though, and in his home town, even though it didn't look the same. 

Smiling down at the black combat boots on the shoe rack, Steve hung up his leather jacket and took off his shoes. Looks like Bucky was home, too. Some days, he still couldn't believe that this was real. Some days, he was afraid that he would wake up and Bucky would be dead again, and he would be all alone again. But not today. Today, the sun was shining, the birds were singing, Bucky would be waiting for him in their apartment with a tilt of his head and that little smile only he ever saw.  _It's wonderful to have a best friend_ , Steve thought as he walked into the kitchen for a drink. 

And stopped, frozen, with one hand on the fridge door. Stared. Blinked, and looked again. Why was there a mess of metal frames and screws lying around? And why was Bucky clutching a sheaf of paper in one hand and a metal table leg in the other, looking utterly disgruntled?

"Buck? Is everything - are you alright?" Steve took a step towards him tentatively.

Bucky scowled. "I don't think I like the future much, Steve. All these complicated instructions just on how to assemble a table." 

Steve couldn't help it; the corners of his lips turned up in a smile. "Now who's sounding like a grouchy old man?" He teased.

"I'm serious. Who knew a dining table that costs over $100 would be unassembled? And that it would be so hard to assemble? I thought the future was supposed to have robots and self-assembling furniture or something!" Bucky grumbled loudly as he put down the table leg and sheaf of papers. "Stupid, lousy, Swedish crap."

Steve extended a hand to Bucky, helping him up. "Anyway, why did you suddenly want a new table anyway? What's wrong with the old one?"

Bucky muttered something too quietly to be heard.

Steve walked them both out of the kitchen and into the living room. Sitting down on the couch, he turned to look at Bucky. "What's wrong, Buck?"

Bucky looked down, letting his hair curtain his face. "It's just...everything's so new and loud, and I don't - I'm not the Bucky Barnes you knew, and all I do is break things. Even when I care." The last part was said in a soft murmur, so quiet that Steve had to strain his ears to catch it.

"Oh, Buck. You know I don't blame you for any of the things you did when you were - before. It wasn't your fault. And I don't think you break things. Heck, you always fixed me after I got into scrapes." Steve put his hand on Bucky's shoulder, gripping just tight enough to reassure him.

"I broke the table." Bucky sighed dejectedly.

"The -" Steve turned around to look quizzically at Bucky. "I don't think not assembling furniture counts as breaking them, Buck."

Bucky sighed again. "No, not the new one. The old one. Clutched at the edge too hard and it sort of just went -" Here he did a hand motion that was presumably to show how the table was destroyed. "So I bought a new one, with Stark's advice, and I wanted to fix it up before you got back."

"Oh." Steve paused. "You always were good with the practical stuff. So, what happened?"

Bucky almost blushed. "I couldn't - The instructions - I didn't know how to assemble it."

"Huh. You want to do it together? Not that I'm any good at this. Remember that time we tried to make a chair out of the pieces of cardboard? I think it might have gone better if I didn't try to help." Steve glanced at his friend. "But seeing as we're not gonna be able to eat in the kitchen until we fix it, might as well start now."

Bucky stared at Steve. "You mean you're not - I  **broke**  the table, Steve! And completely failed at replacing it."  _You don't think I'm a failure?_  He stood up abruptly, trying to - he didn't know what he was trying to do.

"Hey. Hey! Buck, listen to me!" Steve grabbed his left arm (the metal one), covering his tightly clenched fist with a warm hand. ( _Huh. He didn't even realise he had been clenching his fist so hard that the metal was creaking._ ) "It's okay, I don't care that you mess up sometimes! I do, too. You're my best friend, Buck. Nothing's gonna change that. I'm not HYDRA, I'm not SHIELD, I don't care if you're not useful. I just care that you're you. You're James Buchanan Barnes, and you took care of me when we were young, so let me help you now! Buck. Please. Don't beat yourself up over something that isn't your fault."

Bucky sighed, tension leaving his body. "I - you're my best friend too, Steve. You're my  **only** friend." He barked out a bitter laugh. "Thanks."

"For what?" Steve looked at Bucky strangely.

"For telling me that you care. For telling me that I'm - that I'm not worthless because I'm not out in the field." Bucky bumped his shoulder against Steve's, smiling slightly. "For being my friend, punk."

Steve returned his slight smile with a blinding grin. "Yeah, till the end of the line, remember? Wanna go fix up the table now? We should be able to get it done by dinner. Can't be that hard."

\---

And if they had to eat their dinners on the couch, balancing the cardboard boxes of pizza on their knees, well at least Bucky was smiling and joking around with Steve.  _Although_ , mused Steve, _we really need to do something about that unassembled IKEA table._


	4. ianto jones and captain jack harkness.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack has a new project. Ianto is...concerned. (After all, he's the one who has to clean up any mess.) And reluctantly amused. (Really, Jack is sometimes like a puppy you just can't stay mad at.) And also inexplicably touched. 51st century Time Agent meets 21st century furniture (self-assembly required) - Ianto is just glad there aren't any aliens involved.
> 
> (Set sometime post-series 1, mid-series 2. Basically, everyone's alive and Ianto and Jack are together.)

Stepping past the rotating cogwheel door, Ianto Jones straightened his tie with one hand, holding a paper bag of pastries in his other. He was unsurprised that none of the others – Tosh, Owen and Gwen – were in yet. It was rather early – five in the morning to be exact. He scanned the Hub for his boss and lover. (Jack did live here, after all.)

Finding no trace of Jack in his office, nor at any of the computer terminals, Ianto strode purposefully towards the manhole that led to Jack’s bunker. Negotiating the ladder was tricky, but he managed it with some quick manoeuvring. Ianto stepped off the last rung and turned with an expectant smile, fully prepared to see that Jack was still lazing in bed, in his customary sleeping outfit (nothing), smug at having gotten Ianto in his room (again). Instead, his jaw – and the bag of pastries – hit the ground.

“Jack, what – what on Earth are you doing?” spluttered Ianto as he bent down to pick up the fallen bag of pastries. “What’s this…mess? And what happened to your bed?” Ianto gestured at the mess that was currently occupying the space where Jack’s bed usually resided.

Jack bounded up to him, a screwdriver in one hand and a bit of metal in the other. (Ianto privately thought Jack was rather like a large, friendly German shepherd sometimes. ‘Fearless leader’, yes, but also very enthusiastic. Oh yes, **very** enthusiastic indeed.)

“My new project! Ooh, are those pastries from that little café down the street?” Without waiting for an answer, Jack tossed the metal piece onto the mess, igonoring Ianto’s wince as it landed with a ‘clang!’ and reached for the pastry bag instead.

Jack’s muffled exclamation of “Mmm, my favourite!” snapped Ianto out of his stunned silence. “How do you mean, new project? Why is it taking up your bed space? More importantly, is it a) dangerous, b) alien, or worse, c) messy?” Ianto gave Jack a pained grimace at the last possibility. “Last time you tried to assemble something in your room, it spewed orange slime all over the place and us. Took me ages to clean it off the walls, and longer to get it out of my hair. I was finding orange gunk in my hair in the shower for days after that.” _As you should know_ , added Ianto in his head.

Jack raised a placating hand as he speed-chewed his pastry. Swallowing the pastry hastily (and bemoaning the fact that he didn’t get to savour it), Jack tried to explain. “This time it’s perfectly safe. It’s not even alien! And that time with the orange space goo was so not my fault, I did tell you things could get a little…messy. Though I didn’t think that one small capsule could hold that much slime. But really, you shouldn’t have –"

Covering Jack’s mouth with his hand, Ianto managed to cut him off mid-rant, only to recoil in disgust and snatch his hand away quickly. “Jack! What are you, five? You can’t just go around licking people’s hands!” Shaking his head in exasperation at Jack’s answering grin, Ianto went on. “And you haven’t answered my question: what does this project of yours got to do with your missing bed?”

“Oh, didn’t I say?” At Ianto’s glare, Jack hurriedly continued. “Well, I was reading up on Earth history,” Jack tapped his wrist-strap, “and decided to try out some of the, um, traditional activities.” He held up a booklet, brandishing it at Ianto like it was supposed to clear up the mystery.

Taking the booklet from Jack, Ianto flipped through it idly while half-listening to Jack’s excited explanations. _Really, now he’s more like a…Golden Retriever,_ mused Ianto, _all energy and excitement_. Then Ianto stopped. Flipped back to the first page of the booklet. _Waitaminute_. “This is an instruction manual – an IKEA furniture instruction manual, to be exact. Jack, are you trying to assemble a,” Ianto squinted at the booklet, “an IKEA bed?”

Jack abruptly stopped his stream of chatter. “Um… Yeah, yeah, thought it would be fun, the Old Earth experience! We don’t have these in the 51st century, let me tell you that. And I couldn’t sleep, so I thought, what the hell, nothing like a home improvement project to pass the time, eh?”

Ianto smiled, curling his fingers around Jack’s braces and gently pulling him closer. “This wouldn’t be because I complained about your bed being too small because of that one time you tried to roll me over and we both landed on the floor, would it?”

Resting his hands on Ianto’s hips, Jack replied (while trying to avoid Ianto’s gaze), “Well…yeah. I just – I want this…relationship thing of ours to work, Ianto. And I know how much things like this mean to you, so…”

Hearing Jack so blatantly admit his importance and their relationship gave Ianto pause. His hands tightened on Jack’s back for a moment before he automatically smoothed out the fabric.

“Well then, I suppose we’d better get to work then. Not much time left, is there?” At Jack’s confused look, Ianto continued slyly, “After all, we still have to take it for a test drive once it’s done, don’t we?” He sent Jack a wink, to which Jack returned a blinding grin. “Oh yeah. Let’s get started then!”

 


End file.
